Poetry

Blow

I'm wearing the last article of death I have
in my possession the question of meaning
No more faces
no smell of flowers
golden motion :
a pedestrian future
sculpted by the work of angels
tired of flying --
they love me
I remind them of futility
The last thing
I wanted
was to dance
with demons
& wake up
drunk with pain
too much seduction
will drive you home
alone
crowds
never
balance
the weight
in your own hands --
because holding
is an act of symbols
Inspiration comes
from the intimate
not always
awake
& without
passion
Sleep is a virtue
of the depressed
Minds can open doors
without keys --
doors that don't exist
you wish they did
The burden of change
no burden
the weight of ages
a passage of time
the birth of vision
to its death
Open eyes have genius
and leak --
teardrop words
The dogs of reason
are hexen bitches
friend to the skeleton
& industry
I WANT FLESH & SPIRIT & HEAT
no logical sun could generate
Sense
a place in the world --
the act of chance
is passive
we are verbs
In our blood
In our veins
In our youth
In our pain
In our heads
In our sleep
Movement
A book of skin
& bone : my back
scarred in signs of history
& sweat
roses breathing breathing deep
the wind never forgets
your name --
but never speaks
it doesn't care